


Runaways

by noyabeans (snowdrops)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - War, Hugs, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Elements, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Nightmares, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdrops/pseuds/noyabeans
Summary: A soldier comes knocking on the door of the apartment where they are taking refuge, an abandoned memory returns to life.

  “I was a soldier from the 23rd Battalion, but am now a fugitive. I sensed your concealment charm earlier today when I was on the run from the patrol team.”





	1. Chapter 1

The room is dark when Kenjirou wakes up.

“Mornin’,” Futakuchi drawls, not even shifting from where he’s lying on his bed, reading some kind of manual that he managed to lay his hands on during one of their forages in the city centre. “Lucky you, today was a long day.”

Kenjirou blinks at him, struggling to make out Futakuchi’s features in the dim light of the room “What happened?”

“We had to use another concealment charm,” Futakuchi sighs, putting the manual down and sitting up. The light shines closer on him in this position, and Kenjirou can see that he looks exhausted. “There was an unscheduled patrol today. The Iron Wall dudes gave us the warning ten minutes before they arrived, said something about a soldier going AWOL.”

Dread pools in the pit of Kenjirou’s stomach. “How many do we have left?”

They’ve got six charms left, Futakuchi says. The unspoken implication hangs heavy between both of them - six charms are hardly enough if they want to make it to Shiratorizawa’s refugee base. Between Yahaba, Futakuchi and Kenjirou, none of them are trained in charm wielding. Just casting the charm alone exhausts them, much less crossing the thirty miles that still lie between their current position and Shiratorizawa. Not for the first time, Kenjirou bemoans not learning charm casts from Semi and Taichi when they were still in school. He shakes himself off that train of thought reflexively and looks at the other bed, where Yahaba is still sleeping, his arm wrapped in a bandage that wasn’t there when Kenjirou went to bed earlier.

“Yahaba?”

“Almost got caught in Iron Wall crossfire,” Futakuchi says with a grim smile, so unfitting considering who Futakuchi is. “He was on the way back here, and the Iron Wall recruit who spotted him thought he was a soldier.”

“It’s only a small wound,” Yahaba says, rousing from sleep. He sounds put out. “Futakuchi insisted on the bandage.”

Kenjirou pulls himself out of bed, feeling how his whole body is sore and aching. It’s not anything new to him, though, as he quietly pads towards Yahaba’s bed. “Hand out,” he says. Yahaba obeys, protest of “It’s really not necessary, Shirabu” dying on his lips when Kenjirou unwraps the bandage.

Okay, so Kenjirou’s seen worse injuries, but just because he’s seen worse doesn’t mean this isn’t bad. If looks could kill, Yahaba should be tossing in his grave now. “The only thing _small_ about this is the diameter of the wound, you know,” he mutters. At least the bullet’s already been taken out, or he’d consider throwing Yahaba out to be cannon fodder, he muses as he summons his healing magic.

There’s only the sound of the three of their breathing for a long time, and the quiet, familiar hum of Kenjirou’s spell - but then suddenly Futakuchi’s back stiffens and his entire body tenses. The change would be indiscernible to anyone else, but Yahaba and Kenjirou have been on the run with him for the better part of half a year now.

“Someone’s coming,” Futakuchi mutters through gritted teeth, leaping out of his bed to stand at the door, where he presses his ear against the wood.

“Charm status?” Kenjirou whispers, voice too loud in the silence. Futakuchi pauses for a minute, letting the tendrils of his magic stretch out - and his face pulls into a grimace, which is enough answer for them. The charm won’t last long enough, and they’re not in any condition to cast another one.

“Hostile?”

Futakuchi’s face is drawn as he concentrates. “Can’t tell. No hostile aura as far as I can tell. But it doesn’t mean they’re an ally.”

It’s quiet again for a short time, Kenjirou letting his magic wrap up Yahaba’s wounds in his trademark white bandages, and then he hears it too - _thud, thud, thud._ Heavy footsteps, echoing against the stone steps of the apartment block they’re taking refuge in.

“They have a gun,” Futakuchi says, and in tandem, all three of them draw their own. “Don’t shoot first,” he mutters a breath later. “Let me test the aura.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Yahaba hisses. “What if they shoot you first?”

Futakuchi grins. “You’ll save me if that happens, Shigeru.”

It’s hardly an appropriate time to be flirting like this, Kenjirou thinks distantly, but it’s how they’ve made it so far. Just as Yahaba ducks under the side of the bed, only the tip of his gun barrel visible, Kenjirou conceals himself in the shadow of the dresser, releases the safety on his gun and waits -

There’s a knock on the door. Three quick raps - and a raspy, “Help.”

Futakuchi gives them a sidelong glance, to both Yahaba and Kenjirou’s nods, and opens the door. That he’s even doing this means that the person outside has passed Futakuchi’s aura test. The figure that stumbles in is clad in a soldier’s fatigues; immediately, all three of their guns are trained on the person, even if they can’t be seen.

“Who are you?” Futakuchi says, voice even but commanding. There was a reason why Futakuchi was scouted into the military as an officer when the war had just started - for all his obnoxiousness, it’s undeniable that Futakuchi’s a born leader; it is at times like this that it is most evident.

The person raises both arms in surrender, releasing his visor. From where he is, Kenjirou can’t make out much of his face, except that the person looks at Futakuchi, seemingly oblivious to the other two occupants in the room.

“I was a soldier from the 23rd Battalion, but am now a fugitive. I sensed your concealment charm earlier today when I was on the run from the patrol team.”

Futakuchi’s eyes narrow and the line of his mouth draws thinner. This guy knows magic, which means trouble if he’s more powerful than they are. While the three of them are magic wielders, none of their magic types are designed for actual battle. It’s either they shoot first, or get shot. The answer is pretty clear to all of them.

But then the soldier bows his head towards Futakuchi, both arms still raised in the air. “I was informed by Moniwa that you would take me in.”

“M-Moniwa?” Futakuchi actually sputters in surprise, and both Yahaba and Kenjirou blanch. Why would the captain of the Iron Wall rebel group reveal their location to a strange, potentially hostile soldier?

“Yes,” the soldier says, head still downturned. “He said I would find Shirabu here. Shirabu Kenjirou.”

Now it’s time for both Yahaba and Futakuchi to look out of the corner of their eyes at Kenjirou; he just stares flabbergasted at the soldier, something like hope rising in his chest that he refuses to give in to. It can’t be -

“Your name?” Futakuchi demands, gun trained at the soldier’s chest.

“K-Kawanishi Taichi,” the soldier says. Kenjirou drops his gun; it clatters to the ground. Kawan - _Taichi_ \- turns around at the sound, and their eyes meet as if in slow motion.

Kenjirou thinks he feels his heart stop. It can’t be Taichi. There’s no way.

Taichi was enlisted into the military when the war started, pulled in with Semi and Tendou and Ushijima and all the other Charms students, the most powerful of the magic users. Rumour had it that the military had brainwashed all of them and made them their pawns to gain control over the rest of the populace, to exert their powers over resistance troops. Those who tried to fight back were killed without mercy, no pardon granted.

The last time - the last time Kenjirou had seen any of them was the one day on the city wall maybe two months back, when he and Futakuchi were out on a recon mission to stake out a new hiding spot.

He’d spotted them as they were leaving the city gates - Semi, with his spiky, ridiculous hairstyle, chin sharp and upturned, Tendou next to him, hair still as bright as Kenjirou remembered. He’d pressed Futakuchi down, down below the turrets, out of sight of the snipers on the team, because he knew from personal experience how sharp Hayato’s eyes were, how accurate Goshiki’s aim could be. And more than anything, he knew: their previous affiliation as schoolmates - _teammates_ \- meant nothing, nothing in the face of the war.

He doesn’t know how to react. Should he fling himself straight at Taichi? Will Taichi press a grenade to his back and blow all of them up? Or will Taichi charm them with _Involutaria_ then turn them over to the military for the bounty on their heads -

The room is still, all of a sudden, broken only by a stammer from Taichi and an attempt to edge forwards: “K-Kenjirou-”

Futakuchi’s moving then, before Kenjirou even thinks to react, a hand around Taichi’s throat. Kenjirou startles at the roughness of the motion, notices how Futakuchi’s holding his gun to Taichi’s forehead, and -

“Shirabu,” Futakuchi says, voice oddly calm considering the situation at hand. “Do you know him?”

Kenjirou’s eyes flicker between Futakuchi and Taichi. He swallows, watching how Taichi’s eyes follow him.

_I know him better than I do myself_ , Kenjirou wants to say.

He knows Taichi, knows the tragedy behind Taichi’s family, the reason why he’d chosen to study charms, knows how the small of Taichi’s back used to ( _used to_ , he reminds himself) fit just nicely into his hands, how every inch of Taichi’s skin feels under Kenjirou’s fingers. Only God knows how many times he’s dreamt of this person in front of him over the past nine months, how many times he’s felt the stabbing pain through his heart at the knowledge that they wouldn’t ever meet again, not as friends, not as lovers, not as anything less than enemies.

He just needs to give the word, and this imposter - because surely he has to be an imposter, doesn’t he? How can the real Kawanishi Taichi be standing here in front of him, in the dingy one-room apartment they’ve been taking refuge in? - will be shot dead at point-blank range by Futakuchi, the last of Kenjirou’s demons from the pre-war world eliminated before his eyes.

Futakuchi’s finger is already on the trigger. Kenjirou’s eyes dart between Taichi and the way Futakuchi is staring expectantly at him. If he says the wrong thing, makes one wrong move, his next choice could spell death. But then Taichi drops his gaze, as if in resignation, as if he’s _given up_ , and Kenjirou actually feels something twist in his gut.

If this Taichi is a traitor, Kenjirou thinks, then -

_Then I’d rather die by Taichi’s hand than by anyone else’s._

“Yeah, I do,” he says at last. He doesn’t recognize his own voice, the words sound cottony and muffled and stick to his throat.

Futakuchi gives Taichi one more long look, and lowers the gun. Yahaba hasn’t moved yet; Kenjirou knows that the crosshair of Yahaba’s gun is trained right where Taichi’s heart is.

But no matter. He takes a tentative step towards Taichi, willing his legs to not buckle underneath him. Taichi doesn’t move from where Futakuchi’s released him.

“Taichi,” he says, letting the word hover in the air, a name that almost- _almost_ feels foreign on his tongue. Except it could never be.

“Kenjirou,” Taichi says in answer, and if there was any doubt before, there isn’t any now, because Kenjirou knows that voice - knows that voice as the one who would sigh in patient exasperation when Kenjirou rattled on and on about some non-consequential issue, knows the voice as the one who would whisper soft promises of forever into Kenjirou’s ears.

The next thing Kenjirou knows, he’s being wrapped up in two firm arms and _oh_. This is the real deal, this warmth that he’s missed, the scent - _Taichi_ ’s scent - surrounding Kenjirou, so thick that Kenjirou feels like he’s drowning. He’s blind to the world, blind to everyone except for the feeling of Taichi around him, in front of him, behind him, blind to everything except for Taichi.

“I-” he stammers, but words fail him all of a sudden. There’s something hot burning against his eyes, and he gives up on speaking, just cries into Taichi’s uniform. Taichi’s buried his face into the top of Kenjirou’s head, and he can feel his hair growing damp. The thought in itself seems funny, and he can’t help stifling a laugh.

“Washing my hair for me already, are you, Taichi?” he blurts out between sobs, voice watery and weak, but the way that Taichi smiles at him is worth it: it makes him feel like he’s ascended, like he’s at the very top of the world, like he’s invincible.

“You wish,” Taichi mutters, but pulls Kenjirou closer to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... after 4 months, this story is getting a follow-up chapter. 8D Do note the new tags! But tbh, it's nothing major, more world-building/scene-setting than anything.

Some days, Kenjirou has dreams. Nightmares, Futakuchi says they are, because he's been woken up on more than one occasion by Kenjirou's screams.

But Kenjirou has never remembered them beyond a few fuzzy details: the crackle of static electricity next to his ears, the sound of ringing gunshots, and the sensation of something burning near his legs, and the loud thumping of his heart when he jolts awake, trying to catch his breath.

Tonight is different. He knows he's dreaming, because he distinctly remembers going to sleep after wiping down his gun and bidding Taichi goodnight - but now he's in the middle of a room that he recognises as his old dorm.

Deja vu hits him like a lightning bolt, but he has no time to linger because a shrill scream breaks through his thoughts, followed by an explosion so strong he can feel the building shake.

He looks out the window, fear rapidly rising in his chest. He remembers this; he knows what he will see when he looks out, but he can't stop his dream self from moving anyway.

Kenjirou's room is on the twelfth floor, so he can see everything going on outside. Black-cloaked figures are swarming the area, and he can see the spells they are casting from their fingertips: destructive spells, binding spells, stunning spells. The courtyard is ablaze; already some students have fallen victim to the attacks, lying unconscious amongst the flames engulfing the ground. 

Kenjirou's heart pounds in his chest. Why are the Black Cloaks here? They're an elite military unit, they should have no entrance to the school grounds.

Then a voice rings out, echoing through the campus. It's a projection spell, like the one that Washijo-sensei likes to use during morning assembly, but on a much larger scale.

"All magic-wielders are to report to the field in five minutes," the voice says. It is nasally and accented. "Those who try to play truant will be duly punished."

Dread settles in Kenjirou's stomach at the words, and works its way up to wrap around his throat when the voice adds: "Charms students are to bring their wands with you."

Wands. They never use wands in everyday practice; wands are reserved as weapons, only called upon on serious occasions, like war - and only Charms students wield them.

_Taichi._

All he can think of is Taichi. Taichi must still be in his room, might still be sleeping, even. Heart in his mouth, Kenjirou makes a beeline for Taichi's room, only to find two Black Cloaks standing in front of his door. Taichi is standing in between them, wand in his hand, clad in his maroon robe.

From the angle that Kenjirou's at, neither of the Black Cloaks have seen him yet. But Taichi's noticed him already; they lock eyes for a moment before Taichi looks away, a silent signal for Kenjirou to _go_.

Kenjirou wills his legs to move, hands trembling as he turns and runs. Everything about the presence of Black Cloaks spells trouble, and he doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave Taichi behind, but Taichi demanded he flee, so he has no choice but to trust that Taichi will be able to hold his own. Taichi will be fine. He takes the steps three at a time, down, down, down to the ground floor, towards the heat and the flames, away from Taichi -

He's still running, but he's no longer alone. Futakuchi is next to him. They're no longer in the dorm building, but in the middle of a city. Gunshots are ringing out, footsteps gaining on them from. Blood is pounding in his ears, in time to each of his steps. He doesn't know where he's running towards; his sight has narrowed to the dusty road of the alley that they're running down, and the grey jacket that Futakuchi's wearing.

Futakuchi turns a corner without any warning, and Kenjirou follows suit. He recognises thus place: they're almost at the portal that will bring them to safety. There's the sound of a bullet whizzing, and a sudden pain in his right leg. It hurts, like something's stung him, biting into his skin, and he feels his breath hitch. He grits his teeth, ignoring the pain that floods through his limbs as he keeps running.

Just a few more steps, just a few more steps before they reach the portal, and Futakuchi can cover for him, but then someone's bearing on him, his strides are growing shorter, bogged down by the injury, he can hear the sound of fabric on the person's sleeve as it rushes towards him, right before it lands on the back of his neck -

"Kenjirou!"

His chest is tight, and his throat hurts. There's a hand rubbing gentle circles on his back, and a voice saying his name, over and over. It's soft, the voice, and he clings on to it as he tries to catch his breath. Tries to shake the memory of the bullet in his right leg, which is still throbbing with the last vestiges of phantom pain.

It takes a moment more before he recognises who the voice belongs to - it's Taichi. He's got both arms wrapped around Kenjirou, holding him close, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill of the room. In the next bed, Futakuchi is sitting up, his figure illuminated by the small lamp sitting on his bedside table. He must have lighted it when Kenjirou started screaming.

"Kenjirou," Taichi says. "Kenjirou. You're okay. I'm here. I've got you."

Kenjirou lets out a shaky breath, willing the vague snippets of his dream away. His hand reaches up to clutch at Taichi's shirt, his fingers still trembling. Taichi's hand moves to cover his, the action gentle but firm.

"Whatever you dreamt of," Futakuchi says, his voice carrying in the stillness, "is already past, Shirabu. You're safe."

There's a rustle of thin fabric as Futakuchi lies back down, not bothering to blow out the lamp. It's unusual of Futakuchi to be so comforting. Kenjirou doesn't trust his voice enough to answer, so he just buries his face into Taichi's chest.

Taichi's heartbeat is strong and steady, and Kenjirou takes comfort in how the rhythm grounds him. He takes the opportunity to curl up closer against Taichi's body, as though they're not close enough as it is - two grown boys sharing a single bed makes for a tight fit, especially when one's as tall as Taichi is - and just listens to it, pressing his eyes tightly shut.

Wrong move. The image of Taichi, clad in his maroon robes, standing between two Black Cloaks, comes unbidden to mind, as does the churning unease that was in his dream. He's pressed down the memories well enough thus far, but it's like the dream has unlocked a dam of suppressed thoughts and feelings.

"Sorry," he mumbles into Taichi's chest. Traitorous tears are pricking at his eyes. "'m sorry."

"What for?" Taichi whispers back, hand still rubbing circles on his back. "Don't be."

"I dreamt of that last day," he says. "That day when you told me to run. I ran, and I left you alone. I know it's stupid, because that was the best thing I could have done, or I wouldn't be here right now, but I can't forget how -"

"Hush," Taichi says. "It was for the better. I'm glad you did."

Curiosity wins out. "What did they do to you? Why were they even there?"

Taichi places a finger on his lips, effectively shushing him, before shaking his head. "I'm not going to tell you now, we're going on a stake out tomorrow, remember?"

Kenjirou huffs a little, but acquiesces. "Tell me some other day."

"Fine." Taichi sounds slightly exasperated, but he runs a hand through Kenjirou's hair, affectionate and fond, before ducking down to press a kiss against Kenjirou's nose.

Against his will, Kenjirou feels his lips curve into a smile. "Blow out the light, will you? Futakuchi doesn't sleep well with the lights on."

"And yet he'd do it for you," Taichi says, sounding amused.

"He'd do it for any one of us," Kenjirou snorts. "Don't get jealous on me now."

Taichi chuckles, a warm rumble that spreads like honey through Kenjirou's body, out from his chest to the very tips of his toes and fingers. "Don't worry, I'm not."

**Author's Note:**

> This was partially inspired by [glass_owl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/glass_owl/pseuds/glass_owl), who suggested "Shirabu desperately gets a hug that he hasn't had in ages". I'm pretty sure this is far from what you had in mind, but it happened anyway! orz
> 
> I'm still undecided whether I should make this a multi-chaptered story. I'll most likely be making a series out of this universe with different stories for different ships, but this one in particular seems especially interesting to explore. Let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> Scream with me about Kawashira here:  
> [tumblr (rielity)](https://rielity.tumblr.com/) | [twitter (noyabeans)](https://twitter.com/noyabeans)


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